


Mirrors

by Ranni



Series: Mirrors [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Natasha, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, First Meetings, Gen, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Phil Coulson is worried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranni/pseuds/Ranni
Summary: The time that Clint almost killed Natasha, the time she almost killed him over a Pez dispenser, the time they killed someone together, and all the times that came after.





	1. Chapter 1

     Natasha entered the apartment and there he was.

    He was dressed head to toe in black, even his hat, which sat a little crookedly on his head, and he was armed with a compound bow, the arrow drawn back and pointed between her eyes. His whole body was tensed and thrumming with adrenaline, his eyes wide and bright.

     To say she was surprised was an understatement; no one, but no one, ever got the drop on her, especially in one of her safe places. The fact that he had found her, broken in, and caught her unawares was a testament both to his skill, and to her fatigue. She was getting sloppy.

     Natasha let the door swing behind her, shutting her in with her would be assasin. A bow and arrow. He must be from Shield, then. She had heard of the man who killed people with a bow and arrows, and he was one of theirs. It was not really a surprise for Shield to take out someone from the Red Room, but she hadn't known they were aware of her.

     She was getting very sloppy indeed. 

     He was ready for her, and this was inevitable. She dropped her hands to her sides and waited, staring at him.

     He stared back. He did not respond or move in any way, like a statue of an archer. Only his eyes seemed alive, and they were cold and unfeeling. She recognized that look very well.

     "I'm not afraid of you," she said finally. They seemed like good last words.

     Long moments passed, both of them silent, waiting. Finally he shifted his head minutely to the right, indicating a picture on her wall. "Who is the man?" he asked in Russian. His accent was terrible, barely understandable.

     "Anton Bechtold," Natasha answered, and why not. Maybe Shield would take care of him after she was gone. Maybe they knew of him already. "He buys and sells women and children. I was going to kill him."

     "For Red Room." His words were slow.

     "For myself," she spat, her chin up. "For the children he would not get to sell afterwards." She would have killed him gladly. Bechtold was to arrive in the city in the following weeks; she had only needed to wait for him. It would have been so easy, had this man not shown up to stop her.

     The man stared at her a few more moments and then suddenly relaxed his arms, the bow angling down away from her. In a flash she reacted, reaching for the knife at her belt, but just as quickly the bow was drawn again and pointing at her. She moved to the right and he mirrored her smoothly, doing the same to the left a second later. He was as quick and graceful as she. Natasha put her hands down again and was only somewhat surprised when he lowered the bow. They watched each other warily.

     "Do you want Pez?" he asked, the words out of nowhere, and she blinked. He pointed at his pocket, then slowly and deliberately reached in with two fingers and pulled out a plastic Pez dispenser. It had a green, grinning alligator head on top. "It is candy," he said in his atrocious Russian, obviously thinking she did not know what Pez was. "It is delicious candy." He held the dispenser out toward her and shook it a little.

     Of all the things he could have said, it was literally the last thing she had expected. "Your Russian is so horrible," she growled, this time in English, "that you should never be allowed to speak. I have heard babies speak more understandably than you. For Shield to send you to kill me, they should be ashamed."

     He hmmphed. His face did not change in expression at all as he slowly raised his hand and then shot a Pez candy into his mouth. Suddenly his lips quirked into a half smile. "Do you want a Pez?" he repeated, this time in English.

     That was how she met Clint Barton.


	2. Chapter 2

She told him of Bechtold's crimes and he listened with a stony, unreadable expression. He recited the list of crimes Shield had associated with her, and written into the document that was also her death warrant, and assigned to his team. It was a long list.

 "Team? Where are the others?"

 He shrugged noncommitally. He gave her his name easily, more easily than she would have ever given hers (though he knew it already from her dossier), but there would apparently be no information given out about his teammates. That she could understand.

 "When does Bechtold get to the city?"

  
  "He should here in two weeks, three at most."

  
  Barton nodded. "All right."

  
  "All right what?"

  
  "All right, he gets here in two weeks and you kill him, _that_ all right."

  
    She was suddenly suspicious again and he could see it in her face, and sighed. "I'm tired," he said finally. "Tired of doing this. I joined Shield to save the world. I'm not sure that killing you would do the world some good. I _am_ , however, pretty sure that killing this guy would do a lot of good, so there you go. I am judge, jury, and no longer executioner. You, Miss Romanov, are free to go."

  
  She blinked. Barton looked back at her blandly. Then he added, "Well, _almost_ free to go."

  
  There it was. Now would come some condition, most likely involving her showing her gratitude in some tangible, physical way. Again he seemed to read her mind.

  
  "Ha, no, not like that," he said quickly, his hands raised in a calming gesture, but also rolling his eyes a little. "I mean that I still have my partner out there combing the city for you, and I'm not taking the risk of you two finding each other. He's good, he's looking for you, and he would kill you without hesitating a second , which would completely defeat the purpose of me letting you go. I also can't risk you noticing him first and killing him. He's my best friend."

  
  "So then, what do we do?"

  
  "We wait. We wait for awhile." Barton took out his earpiece and fiddled with it a moment. It made a crackling sound and she realized he had made it so the comm would play loud enough for her to hear. He set it carefully on the floor in between them.

  
  They waited for maybe two hours, watching each other uneasily but with an odd, shaky trust that the other would do them no harm. When the comm came to life suddenly both of them jumped a little.

  
  "Hawkeye, Silverfish, report." A man's voice, crisp with authority.

  
  Barton pointed to himself and mouthed "Hawkeye."

  
  Another voice came through. Deeper, the voice of an older man. "Silverfish here. No sign of target. I also haven't heard from Hawk in several hours. No response any time I've called for him." Interesting. He must've been squawking in Barton's ear off and on in the last few hours, but he'd given no indication. "Is he at the extraction point?"

  
  "Negative. Hawkeye, report." Pause. "Hawkeye, _report_."

  
  Barton twitched, the urge to obey that voice so ingrained that he couldn't help himself. He crossed his arms instead and stared at the earpiece. His face was carefully blank, but his eyes were sad.

  
  "Maybe his comm is busted."

  
  "Maybe." It was obvious that Boss Man did not think so. "Silver, get to the extraction point. He might yet show up. I'll meet you there and we'll figure out the next step."

  
  "No way that bitch could've made him. _No way_." Partner sounded worried.

  
  "Get moving, Silver. Be there in 20."

  
  "Affirmative." The comm crackled again and was silent.

  
  "And that," Barton said quietly as he stood up, and carefully crushed the earpiece under his boot, "as they say, is that." He hung his head slightly, and for the first time, turned away from her.

  
   In that moment all of Natasha's instincts told her to attack, that his guard was down enough, that he could not get the upper hand. She pulled her knife, and she saw in the minute change in his posture that he had heard. He did nothing. She hesitated.

  
  "Go on," he said hollowly, still not looking at her. "Get lost. Beat feet. Go lie in wait and kill your guy."

  
  "Where will you go?" She suddenly had to know.

  
  Barton shrugged.

  
  "You could meet up with them still. Say your device was broken, like they thought. That you could not find me."

  
  He shrugged again. Natasha watched him and a few minutes later he turned on his heel to look at her, irritation in his eyes. "What the hell, why aren't you going?" They stared at each other.

  
  And from that day to this, she could never explain or understand the next words to come from her mouth.

  
  "Come with me."


	3. Chapter 3

He was easy to be around because he was quiet. He was watchful but not talkative, and when he wasn't moving was so still that at first it was a little unsettling. There was no way to know how much of that stillness was natural to him and how much was the result of sitting for hundreds of hours on missions, the practice bleeding into the rest of his life and becoming a habit.

  
When they did talk he had an easy and open manner. A good quality in a spy, she decided. His whole affect screamed "safe" and "friendly", but she had seen him in that motel room, bow drawn and eyes flashing with danger, knew that in reality he was anything but safe. Like Natasha, he had a mask to hide his deadliness. Hers was beauty and seduction. His was an affability that easily drew people in, that made them let him close without a second thought.

  
She suspected that this might make him the more dangerous of the two of them.

  
Natasha did not have much to say to him at first. She mostly watched him, alternately fascinated and irritated. She watched him check his weapons repeatedly, handling each arrow in his quiver, each strap of his uniform. She watched him flip the alligator head of the Pez dispenser back and forth, back and forth. _Click click click click_.

  
He wasn't a complainer. Didn't complain when she took the small bed in the room, only laid down on the floor, rolling up his jacket under his head. Said nothing when she didn't give him a blanket, though she had two. The next night she had felt a little guilty and gave him one (the thinnest one, they _were_ hers) and he had smiled and thanked her.

  
She had cans of food and he took what she liked least, said he didn't care what he ate. Natasha decided to test that, and on the morning of the third day threw him a can of lima beans. He looked at the label but probably didn't know the words in Russian, because when he used his knife to open the can he had looked surprised. Then he shrugged minutely and began spooning them into his mouth.

  
_Crunch_ , _crunch_. They probably should've been cooked, by the sound, but he said nothing. Natasha ate out of her own can of chicken, glancing up occasionally as Barton slogged through the can, chewing methodically, looking back at her impassively.

  
"Do you, mmm, like lima beans?" she couldn't help but ask finally, her lips twitching. Seeing him struggle was actually pretty funny.

  
"Well," he began thoughtfully, swallowing with the barest show of effort, "I've eaten in a mess hall for the last eleven years, and in worse places before that, so pickinesss is not one of my faults. I've also eaten plenty of 'nothing' in my life, and this is better than eating that." Crunch, crunch. "Maybe I could sprinkle in some salt or something," he added finally, holding the can out briefly and considering it. He shrugged.

  
And as Barton dug his spoon in the can for another heaping mouthful she finally couldn't help herself and let out a short laugh, surprising them both. He grinned at the sound. His smile was boyish, radiant. She shook her head and chuckled again, low, and tossed him her half full can of chicken.

********

They both had money, not a lot, but enough to buy him a new coat. He hated giving up his Shield jacket, it was warmer, and it was his, but paired with his all black clothing it made him stick out too much in public. Natasha cut his hair shorter and he looked almost right, enough that he could blend in. Well, as long as he never opened his mouth. Natasha spoke for both of them and he didn't mind.

********

Barton was checking his bow again. Pointlessly, she thought, because he had not used it, had not even drawn it since five days ago in the motel room. He checked every inch, then pulled out the arrows and went through each one again. She knew a ritual when she saw it, had cleaned her own weapons to calm herself enough that she wouldn't call him on it, try to shame him.

  
"Why a bow and arrow?" That she could not let go. "Do you not like guns?"

  
"Oh, I love guns," Barton assured her. "And I'm good with them, too, I just like the bow better. I'd use it all the time if I could, but it's too high profile. They like me to use it only when they want people to know it was Shield behind a hit. Like a trademark."

  
"You were going to use it on me," she reminded him.

  
He looked at her levelly. "So the Red Room would know we had gotten one of their best."

  
"You did not know I had already left."

  
"You know that we didn't."

  
"Would it have made a difference, after all I had done?" Natasha raised an eyebrow. "After all I had done since I left?"

  
Barton shrugged one shoulder, inspecting an arrow, running his finger up the razor sharp tip. "Would it matter to Shield, I don't know. It would have mattered to me."

  
"Why did you leave?" She had asked him before, but he never answered. Always a shrug, a shake of his head, as if he didn't know himself. Natasha did not believe that for a moment. It had been devastatingly hard for her to leave the Red Room behind, and she had wanted to, so badly. She did not believe it could be so easy for him, especially when he was obviously missing his team. He didn't seem like he had wanted to leave at all. But he had.

  
"You didn't do it for me." It was a statement. "You wanted me to go on alone, and you would have....done what? Stood there in that room until they found you? Until I came back to kill you? What would you have done? Where would you go?"

  
"I would just, you know, wait. Wait for whatever happened next. And what happened next was that we left together." Barton looked out the window. "Sometimes at night, in the dark, there's a hum--I don't know, maybe you've heard it. Have you? I'm pretty sure it's the drone. They're looking for me. For my body. Maybe they think you killed me. Or maybe they know that I took off." He shrugged again, as if it didn't matter, but his frown told her it bothered him. Bothered him that they might think that. Even though it was the truth.

  
"What would they do if they find you? Would they kill you?"

  
"I honestly don't know. But you don't just walk away from Shield. Well, maybe you can if you are an accountant or something, but not in my line of work."

  
"And what line of work is that?" She wanted him to say it.

  
He smirked at her. "Wet work."

  
Natasha had never heard the expression, but it was not hard to figure out. "And you know things they cannot have other people know."

  
"I guess they would kill me. Maybe just put me in jail. I don't know. I'd like to think Phil wouldn't kill me. My handler, my boss," he explained to her quizzical eyebrow. "But I guess he would, if it was what he was _supposed_ to do. Phil always does the right thing. But I bet Silverfish would let me get away, if it meant he'd have to kill me. Fish has always had a soft spot for old Clint." His smiled and his tone was joking, but he looked sad. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the alligator, ate a Pez. He held it out to her in offering, rattled it, grinned when she rolled her eyes. He flipped the dispenser into the air showily, then returned it to his pocket.

  
"Maybe they would forgive you, put you back to work."

  
"I wouldn't go back."

  
"You say that, but I see in your eyes that you want to."

  
"I met you five days ago and we almost killed one another. I don't think you get to be an authority on what my eyes say just yet. Maybe by next week." Barton smiled at her, and it was clear the subject was closed.

*******

"That is the building," she told him in Russian as they strolled by casually. She held his arm and he had his hands in his pockets. They looked like they belonged there, like any anonymous young couple. Maybe on a date. Natasha pointed at a stained glass window high on the side. "Oh, _look_ , isn't that so pretty?" Her voice was girlish, ridiculous.

  
He grunted disinterestedly--she had told him in no uncertain terms that he was never to speak in public, his accent was a travesty--but she saw his sharp eyes note the window, looking at everything, finding vantage points, his expression carefully bored.

  
She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder affectionately, her signal for moving off the street, out of the public eye. They meandered into a nearby alleyway, and he gestured at a rough looking building, probably abandoned. He was quick to observe things like that; she had not noticed it yet. _Hawkeye_ , she reminded herself--whoever had named him had been apt. Natasha nodded and moments later they were inside.

  
They searched the building silently, she on the ground floor and he heading immediately for the stairs and the second floor. He always went high first, she knew now. She did not hear the floor creak above her as he explored. _Like a damned cat_ , she mused. _Like me._ The thought made her smile a little.

  
There was no one, the building was empty. It was impossible to tell what had been here, now it was only trash, cast offs from homeless people who had come and gone. _Like me,_ she thought again, and the smile fell from her lips. She heard him on the stairs, walking deliberately louder now so she would hear, so she would not be startled when he appeared. Natasha rolled her eyes. As if he could sneak up on her.

  
_He got the drop on you once_ , the colder side of her--the Black Widow in her--warned, _and don't you ever forget it_. Yes, he had. Once. It would never happen again.

  
"It's clear up there," he said, interrupting the thought. She nodded. "Okay, that building will be nothing to get into." His voice was suddenly businesslike, and she imagined him using that voice with his team (Phil and Silverfish--he trusted her with their names now--or at least those names) as they planned out their missions. He had probably used the same voice to clinically plan with them the hit on her own life. "It's big, do you think it used to be a church?"

  
"I think it was a ballroom, that celebrations were held there." Her exact meaning was lost a little in translation, but he seemed to understand well enough. "There have to be lower floors."

  
He agreed, and drew in the dust on the floor. "Here's the window you mentioned," he said, marking it, "and there was a door approximately here that might also work for getting in. I saw to this side," he drew a little more, "an area that looked like it might be a courtyard or something? A, uh, grassy area with benches?"

  
"Ah, yes. He might also own some other buildings around it. We should stay here to observe, but since he is not even in the country yet there might not be much to see."

  
"What do we do with everyone else?" he asked. She frowned at him. "You know Bechtold isn't just strolling in and hanging out by himself once a month."

  
"We kill his men, too," she said easily. "Unless you have a problem with that." There was a hint of challenge in her voice.

  
He shrugged. "Not especially. But I meant, what do we do with all the girls?"

  
"Girls?"

  
Clint rolled his eyes. "He's a human trafficker, Natasha, don't you think there will women and girls there? Being, you know, _trafficked_?"

  
Natasha's blood ran absolutely cold in that moment.

  
She swore in Russian, loudly, angrily. Somehow she had neglected to figure that into her fantasies of Bechtold's death. She had always imagined herself getting in and taking out a score of hired muscle, sure, before getting to work on the man himself. At no point had she factored in the who knows how many women that would be there. Prisoners. Property.

  
Clint raised his eyebrows and sighed. "It's not like we can open the door and they just run out free. We need to have a plan for them."

  
"I'll think of something," she said irritably. She felt too hot, the room too small, he was standing too close all of a sudden, though he had not moved. It was unlike her to plan so poorly and it made her angry. Stupid, she scolded herself. Sloppy. She had been so sloppy lately. Clint Barton being here with her at all was proof of that.

  
He sensed some change in her and stepped across the room, giving her space, looking out the window as if that had been his intention in moving all along.

  
_As if you didn't know better_. Her eyes narrowed at him coldly. _He thinks you're a fool._

  
He frowned and held up his hands in a supplicating gesture. "Take it easy," he said evenly. "We'll figure it out together. We're ahead of the game, we have time." She was still breathing hard, still glaring.

  
No. She should have planned for it already, should have planned the whole thing as meticulously as she did everything; as she had gone through the scenarios she would have seen it herself. She should have been preparing this whole time, not walking down the streets buying coats. Not talking about Shield and the Red Room. Not testing his hand to hand combat and laughing at him as she pinned him to the floor again and again. Clint Barton was a distraction to her. He was making her weak.

  
" _We_ do not have time," she bit out, and stepped toward him. He watched her warily but did not move in response, even as she advanced until she was inches from him, staring him in the eyes, seething. His back was to the wall. " _We_ do not plan anything together. You are compromising my mission, you with your stupid stories and your idiotic bow and arrows." He watched her, expression carefully neutral . "I am better than you are," she spat, "and you will hold me back and make me fail. With your dumb black clothes to make you stick out, and your ridiculous accent, and your--"

  
Her eye was caught for a moment by a flash something green, and her face flushed hot when she recognized the alligator head Pez dispenser, that stupid thing he was constantly fiddling with, sometimes eating what seemed to be an endless supply of candy but mostly just flicking the head back and forth, back and forth--click click click click--until sometimes she thought she would go insane.

  
"Your... _candy_ ," she gritted out, furiously. "Your... _fucking_... _candy_!" Lightning fast she plucked it from his pocket and held it in her fist at his eye level.

  
His reaction was as immediate as it was unexpected. So easygoing, almost passive, that he was always, that it was a shock when his eyes, his whole face, went dark. Muscles tensed, moving under his shirt, and she could almost smell his fury. "Give that back," he said quietly, though his whole bearing was thundering at her. "Give that back _now_."

  
Natasha raised her eyebrows, challenging. Her lips twitched up into a mocking smile, cruelly beautiful. She moved her arm back as if to throw it, taunting. "I don't think you can make me."

  
And maybe he couldn't. Maybe the Clint Barton who crunched lima beans without complaint and let her cut his hair and spared people's lives...maybe he couldn't. But in this moment she saw someone darker, someone she had not seen since those first moments in the motel room, gazing at her over a drawn arrow, a promise of death in his eyes. Hawkeye. Maybe Hawkeye could.

  
"I don't want to fight you," he said, and he was trying not to make his voice sound threatening, trying and failing. "I don't want to fight you; I never did. And we can go our separate ways and without hard feelings if that's the way you want it. That's how it can be." Somehow his face grew even harder. "But you give that to me, and you give it to me now, because it is _mine_." He all but hissed the last word and she could see in his eyes at that moment that he would kill her if he could.

  
All this over an alligator Pez dispenser.

  
Life was nothing if not interesting.

  
Long moments passed, both of them breathing hard, neither moving. She was so tensed that Natasha imagined that when she did move, her muscles would creak. Her blood rushed in her ears. She could feel the heat rolling from his body.  
Suddenly she didn't know what she wanted more, to tear his eyes out or to kiss him. She wondered how his lips would taste on hers, if he would be good in bed. Who would he even _be_ in bed? Sweet, easygoing Clint, who smiled so readily, if a little sadly, or this stranger who practically vibrated with fury?

And then she knew that she wanted them both. To keep them both.

  
With effort, Natasha slowed her ragged breathing. She willed her fingers to unclench from around the plastic in her hand, had clutched it so tight it was a marvel the thing had not cracked. She held it out to him, her hand steady, eyes still boring into his.

  
She had moved slowly but he did not, snatching it from her fingers in an instant, slipping it into a pocket and she knew she would not be seeing it again. They continued watching each other silently, neither willing to make the next move, but finally he did. His body suddenly relaxed and he stepped fluidly around her. He crossed the room, all graceful movement, a contrast to the rigidity of only a moment before, and picked up his pack. He had dropped it on the floor what seemed like hours ago in order to draw pictures in the dust. Natasha was sure he would walk straight out the door but instead he spun around, regarding her.

  
"What happens now?" he asked simply. As if the answer did not matter. Just a guy planning his day.

  
Natasha forced herself to take a deep breath. Then another. "We figure it out together," she said, with difficulty. "We have time to figure it out together."

  
"That's what you want?"

  
She glared at him, but he was going to make her say it. She didn't want to say it, but she did want him to stay. Needed him to, somehow. "It's what I want." Every word was an effort, but she said them.

  
Clint didn't smile, but the dark look was gone. He dropped the bag to the floor.

  
And from that moment on, they were together.

 


	4. Chapter 4

  On the tenth day she awoke and Clint was already up, pointlessly checking his weapons again, combing over the bow with loving fingers, testing the arrowheads. His hand patted the pocket where she knew the Pez dispenser to be. He had not brought it out again, but touched that pocket frequently, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

  
He saw her watching him and smiled. "Good morning, sleepyhead! And happy birthday to youuuuuu!" He sang the last part.

  
She frowned at him. She did not know when her birthday was, none of them had known. It had not mattered. "You do not know my birthday," she said.

  
"Oh, but I _do_. I saw it when we briefed for the mission, I saw your date of birth. It's today. Happy 20th birthday, Natasha Romanov."

  
She rolled her eyes at him.

  
"I couldn't get you a present," he went on, "but I did get you flowers. Well, sort of." He held up a piece a paper, where he had drawn with blue pen a bouquet of flowers in a vase. "Every girl should get flowers on her birthday."

  
He wasn't a particularly good artist, and the paper, which he had probably found on the floor amongst the debris in the building, was crumpled, but she smiled slightly at it just the same. She took it from him and managed another eye roll at his bright grin.

  
Later she folded the paper as small as she could and put it in her pack. To keep.

 

********

By the eleventh day there had been a little movement at Bechtold's building and she was glad. She had been starting to worry that she had found the wrong place when two men went in. Getting it ready, she and Clint agreed. Bechtold would be coming soon, maybe even this week.

  
Later that day she went out alone to buy more food for them. She splurged and bought some fresh fruit; the extra vitamins would do them good, she decided. Otherwise she bought mostly canned meat and beans, for the protein. They needed to be strong. She briefly considered buying more lima beans as a joke, but thought better of it; they did not have enough money now for jokes. She bought the groceries without incident, just another girl out doing normal shopping.

  
When Natasha returned Clint was doing some sort of exercise in the big, open room of the building, the sunlight streaming onto him from the windows. One of them was broken; it was getting a little colder at night, but right now it felt wonderful. She watched him for a minute and realized he was doing Tai Chi, or the Clint Barton version of Tai Chi, anyway. He stopped when he saw her, came over and took one of the shopping bags.

  
"Did you buy any cookies?" he asked hopefully.

  
She knew he was joking. "Yes, I did. Enjoy."

  
He dug through the bag. "Mmmmm, canned cookies!" He held up a can of chicken, puzzled out the Russian label, sighed a little. "I never do get tired of these canned cookies!" He smiled.

  
"Were you doing Tai Chi?" she asked.

  
"Sort of." She smirked.

  
"I will teach you ballet. It is better."

  
"You just want to teach me ballet so you can laugh at me doing it."

  
"I will laugh at you anyway."

  
"Depressingly true."

  
She took off her shoes, and sighing again, he did the same. She showed him a few ballet positions. He was awkward at first but picked up the rhythm of it quickly. He was limber and graceful, though nothing like she was. She moved easily, enjoying the strain on her muscles. It had been a long time since she had felt safe enough to stop and dance.

  
"It would be easier with music," she told him almost apologetically. "Easier to keep count with a beat."

  
Clint surprised her then by singing; it was an old American rock song that she sort of recognized, but it was supposed to have a fast tempo and he sang it slowly, keeping time with their movements. The lyrics were a little sad. It should have been funny, him singing and them dancing, but it wasn't. It was actually sort of nice. She closed her eyes and kept moving.

  
"This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark," he sang. 

  
She smiled to herself, since they were dancing in the sunlight. She moved so that she was dancing in front of him instead of beside him. She watched as he mirrored her movements and found herself taking another step toward him. Close to him. Closer than they had ever been, except for when they had sparred (mostly) playfully, or the time they had almost fought for real.

  
Close enough that they could kiss. All she had to do was stretch up just a little, or him down just a little. Just a tiny movement to bridge that final gap. They both were still now, waiting. Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears. She wanted to kiss him, didn't want to. She wanted him to lean forward and pull her close, was also afraid that he would do just that.

  
"Can I show you something?" he said finally, breaking the spell.

  
Natasha nodded, and stepped back. Disappointed and relieved. Clint went over to his backpack, dug through it a moment, and pulled out a small picture. He held it out to her and she took it. In the picture was a smiling woman with long brown hair. She held a little boy in her arms, barely older than a baby.

  
"That's Laura," he said, "and Cooper."

  
"You are married?" She was beyond shocked. She had never heard of a married spy. "You have a son?"

  
"No," he said, "she's my girlfriend. Cooper is her little boy. Her husband died just before he was born." He took the picture back, looked at it wistfully. "I would have married her, though. You know, before."

  
Before now. He didn't say that, but she knew. Before he had deserted Shield.

  
"You would take on a child that wasn't yours?"

  
"Yeah, why not?" he said defensively, his eyes flashing with irritation. "He's a great little kid. She's great, too." Now his voice was sad. "I wonder what she'll think, when she hears I'm gone. I hope it's Phil that tells her. He's good at things like that, giving bad news."

  
"Is she with Shield, too?"

  
He tucked the picture away. "Yeah, she's a nurse. I tear people down, she patches them up."

  
"How did you meet her?"

  
"I had to get stitches once, in my arm. See? Here." He indicated a place on the underside of his arm, near his elbow. _Defensive wound_ , the Black Widow in her whispered. The scar was pink, not very old. "She was there and we sort of hit it off. I wouldn't have ever called her, I'm not good with things like that, but D--" he caught himself, "Silverfish, he ragged on me constantly until I did. He can be a real jerk, but I'm glad he made me." Clint smiled sadly.

  
"You could still go back," Natasha said. "It isn't too late. You could still go."

  
He shook his head, as she knew he would.

  
They didn't talk any more than night.

 

*********

  
On the twelfth day the men came to the building again, boxes of supplies in their arms. Natasha felt a creeping excitement. It was actually going to happen. She asked Clint if he needed to practice with his bow; it had been almost two weeks since had last shot it, and she needed him ready. He was sitting cross legged on the floor, writing something on a piece of paper. He shook his head.

  
"I don't want to waste the arrows; I can't get any more. It will be okay, I don't need the practice. I don't miss."

  
She scoffed. "So humble."

  
Clint shrugged. "I don't miss," he said again. Simply, as if was something that was just true.

  
"Soon we will put Shield's training against the Red Room's," Natasha said, sitting down beside him. "And then we will see who is the better shot."

  
"It will be me," he said with an assured grin, "though I happily admit I will never be your match in sheer tenacity. And hand to hand you have me beat, a hundred times over."

  
That was certainly accurate, but then again she was better than most everyone.

  
"And Shield didn't teach me to shoot," he went on unexpectedly. "I've always been good. Always."

  
He did not say much about his life before Shield; she had asked once and he told her he had been in the circus. Spun a long tale about riding elephants and a juggler who taught him to fly on the trapeze. When the story had begun to get particularly fantastic--a contortionist sword eater introduced--he had given up and laughed, admitting none of it was true.

  
"Well, you did not learn in a circus, because you did not grow up in a circus." She had been a little disappointed; she had liked the story.

  
"No, I grew up in a Boys' Home." She didn't understand. "Um, an orphanage? But just for boys."

  
"Oh." Somehow that was more of a surprise to her than the circus story. She had had the idea, somehow, of him growing up in a normal American family, in a big house with siblings and a dog, with parents. Imagined a chubby cheeked Clint playing baseball while his family cheered. She had seen something like that on television once. It was harder to imagine him growing up alone in an institution. Kind of like she had.

  
"Are your parents dead?" _Mine are dead_ , she wanted to say, but didn't. He probably knew that already.

  
"Yeah." He looked at his paper, then folded it and put it in his pocket. Brushed his hand over the other pocket where the alligator head Pez dispenser was, such a habit now that she doubted he was aware he was doing it. "My dad was a drunk, they died in a car crash. I was ten."

  
"And you had no other family?"

  
"None that wanted to take on two almost-teenaged boys." Natasha blinked. "I have an older brother," he clarified.

  
"Where is he now?"

  
"I don't know." Clint got to his feet suddenly. "Hey, I have an idea. An idea about what to do about the women. Bechtold's women."

  
She allowed herself to be steered into the subject change. "What is your idea?"

  
"We both agree, right, that bringing in the local police is not an option?"

  
It wasn't. "They will be in his pocket," she said. He had used that phrase once and she found it perfect.

  
Clint nodded. "Well, if the police are out," he said, "I was thinking, what about Shield?"

  
She was surprised, raised her eyebrows at him.

  
"I thought maybe, after it was all, you know, over, and you and I were well on our merry way, that we could call in Shield. Shield would help them." He was confident. "They would be safe."

  
"And so would we?" _Shield tried to kill me_ , she wanted to remind him, but how well he already knew that.

  
"So would we." He sounded sure.

  
"How would you contact them?"

  
"I know a way." And for the first time since she met him he was being actively evasive, moreso than not wanting to talk about an uncomfortable past, not wanting to discuss painful subjects. _Don't ask me how,_ his eyes pleaded. _Don't ask how_. "When the time comes, just trust me. I know a way."

  
"Alright," she said finally. Because she did trust him.


	5. Chapter 5

It was the fifteenth day, the last day.

Anton Bechtold was in the city. It was almost time. They had to be ready. Had to be perfect.

Natasha would tell him anything, anything he asked. He was safe to be with, would not hurt her. She needed him to know that she was safe also. Needed him to know that before they went into that building together.

"Tell me," she said, looking at him intently, "why you left Shield. Tell me about it now."

"I don't like to think about things like that," he tried, but his smile was watery, and she knew he'd tell her now if she pushed. He was getting mentally ready, like she was. "It's better to focus on the good things, Nat."

"Tell me. Tell me everything that has happened and end the story with the worst day of your life, because that's what led you here. To me. I need to know. Need you to say it."

Clint's shoulders relaxed as he surrendered, as she knew he would. "Alright." His voice was quiet and emotionless and for a moment she regretted asking. Thought about taking it back, but it was too late now. "Okay." He paused. Swallowed. Turned toward her and focused his eyes somewhere above her left shoulder as he spoke.

"My father was a....a drunk. I told you that, right? He beat my mother, my brother, and me. I hated him. He had been in the army and he was a hell of a shot--not as good as me," he added with a ghost of a smirk, "but still pretty damned good. He taught my brother and I to shoot; white trash always has a bunch of guns around, you know. I was good, even as a kid. The only time I ever remember him being happy with me is when I'd hit the target. I hit it every time. He'd hoot and clap me on the shoulder and I'd try not to flinch when his hand came near me. I hated him so much.

"When I was ten, and Barney thirteen, my parents died in a car crash. My dad was drunk, of course. A person in the car they hit died, too. The police came and took us to the Boys' Home. 'For awhile' they said. 'Until someone comes to get you.' But no one ever came.

"Anyway, it was awful, as you can imagine. But we made do, because at least we had each other. He wasn't always a great brother, but he was mine. Then Barney turned eighteen and joined the Army. I don't know what happened to him after that; I never saw him again."

Clint looked away then and stood up. He looked out the window and cleared his throat, steeling himself, thinking. He sat back down on the floor, and she scooted beside him, close. "I was there another three years alone, well, alone as anyone ever is in a sea of kids, until I was eighteen myself. The house mother gave me my birth certificate and social security card and drove me to the Army recruiter's office. I guess that's what they did with everyone, with all those boys. I didn't know what else to do, so I joined up. I don't know what I thought would happen. I guess some part of me thought maybe I would find my brother there. Stupid." He shook his head.

"It was hell. I was too short, too skinny, and even though I had finished high school I couldn't read particularly well, wasn't very smart..." He trailed off, remembering. "I was well on my way to being everyone's least favorite soldier until the day they took us to the range. That was the day everything changed. They put a gun in my hands and it...it...was just like before. I could hit anything they asked me to, any distance, with any gun." Clint smiled then, and turned toward her. "People said...they said...they said it was a gift, what I could do. And you know what, Natasha? It is. It really is." He reached out and she reached back, their fingers intertwining. "It was something I could do well without trying, something just for me, the one thing in my life that was ever just.... _easy_." His voice broke on the last word and he swallowed hard.

"Well, Shield has their ears everywhere and when they heard about an expert marksman in basic training they poached me before anyone could protest. The director came himself, brought me to Shield headquarters to train up and be an agent. And as horrible as the Boys' Home and the Army were, Natasha, that's how wonderful it was at Shield. My own room, clothes that hadn't been worn before, food I didn't have to fight for. Everyone was so friendly; I had never seen people act like that. Everyone on the same side, working toward the same goal, and I was a part of it. For the first time in my whole life I felt safe. I felt wanted."

Clint smiled, it was obviously a happy memory, but the smile was sad around the edges.

Here it comes, Natasha thought. Here comes the terrible. The terrible always followed the good.

"They trained me for months, mostly hand to hand stuff and not nearly enough about gathing intel...there was a lot more 'on the job' training back in the old days." He laughed a little. "I was at the range every available moment, and the weapons master that worked there was the first to hand me a compound bow. And as good as I was with a gun, I was even better with the bow.

 _They like me to use it when they want people to know it was Shield behind a hit_ , Natasha remembered him saying. _Like a trademark._

"And then it was finally time, time for the first time. They packed me in a plane to Germany to kill a man and his son, both of them big time arms dealers. I shot each one of them dead with an arrow, they were together and it took all of five minutes. I didn't let myself think about it at the time, I just did it. But on the ride back I was shaking so hard I thought I would shake myself right apart."

"And that was the worst day," Natasha ventured when he fell silent.

He looked surprised. "No," he said. "It was when I got back. I walked with my handler back into headquarters--it was a guy named Jim Campion back then, a good guy--but he didn't take me to debrief, like I had thought he would. Instead he took me to the big conference room and there was a...it was a..." Suddenly the words stuttered in his mouth, and Clint's shoulders shook slightly. "It was a p-party," he finally finished, spitting out the word with an odd sense of incredulity. "I had turned nineteen years old while in Germany. Nineteen years old--God, just a kid. It was a birthday party. For me. Everyone I knew was there, and they were smiling, and there was a...c-c-c-cake. I remember it was chocolate and had yellow icing. It wasn't bought from a store either, someone had made it. For me." He said it with wonder, astounded anyone would spend time doing that for Clint Barton.

Natasha could not really understand why this seemed to upset him so much; birthday parties always seemed like great fun on television, when other people had them. She patted his hand awkwardly and Clint looked up at her, sad eyes filled with tears.

"There was a cake," he repeated, "and they even sang the song--you know, the birthday song?" She shrugged, he shrugged back; it didn't matter. "They sang the song and it was just like out of a movie or something, and it was the happiest day of my whole life." Tears fell from his eyes and streaked down his cheeks. "And it was also the worst."

There it was.

She stood up then, pulling him up with her. She took a step forward, looking deep into his eyes, searching, close enough to kiss.

"It was the worst day of my life, because I knew then that I would do anything, anything, to keep them. I would go anywhere, I would kill anyone, and I would do it without question, because I had to have that feeling, that feeling of being wanted. And I knew then...knew then that I was a monster. I was a monster because I could be so easily bought, and so cheaply...for some kind words and a birthday cake."

Clint closed his eyes then, more tears falling, turned his face from her, the picture of heartbreak. Of shame. Natasha reached up and caught the side of his jaw with the cup of her hand, turning it back toward her. She waited until he opened his eyes again, and still held his face in her hand as their eyes locked.

"I am soul sick," she said to him, "I'm angry and tired and scared...and I see it in your eyes like a mirror. We are the same. We are the same." As she said the words, she knew they were true. He nodded, saying nothing, eyes searching hers. "Kindred spirits," she went on, "taking different paths but ending up in the same place, feeling the same. We belong together." She was sure of it.

Clint pressed his face into her hand, their eyes still locked. "I know it sounds silly," his voice was rough, "but I feel like, if I can be with you, everything can be okay. I've been going for eleven years now, and it's been good, most of it, but it's also gotten harder and I thought...I thought that I wouldn't be able to keep on, to keep going. But I now I know you, and I think, if she can do terrible things and still be...still be such an amazing, good person...well, maybe I can still be a good person, too."

Natasha gave a soft, cynical laugh. _No one could confuse me for a good person,_ she almost said. _He_ was the good person, he was all kindness and full of quiet hope. Then it struck her. It was like he had said--if he could be those things, then, maybe she could be, too. He did not see that side of himself and perhaps she was not seeing something in herself, either. Maybe it was something they could only see reflected in the other.

"You are the best person I know," she told him.

Before she could react his arms were around her, pulling her into his chest, her ear pressed where she could hear his heart pounding. And to her surprise it felt right. She fit perfectly in his arms and when she hugged him back found that he fit perfectly in hers--puzzle pieces that had finally come together.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Things were different after that. He seemed steadier, more content, and she suspected now that much of his easy good humor before had been put on, a mask he wore to protect himself. No need for masks anymore. He had shown her his pain and trusted she would not use it to hurt him more. And she never would.

Natasha felt different, too. They did not make a plan for going into Bechtold's building. She trusted Clint, trusted that he would be in the right places. They would protect one another. She would wear no masks either. Not with him.

They would go in that night. She had wanted to wait till morning, but he had argued that they should strike when some of the muscle, and the man himself, would be in their beds, vulnerable. When he was himself, Clint Barton, Clint was all about fairness and equanimity. But she started to learn then, and fully understood later, that when he was in mission mode Hawkeye fought dirty. He did not believe in rules, in sportsmanship of any kind when he was playing for keeps. When his life, or one of his team's, were on the line--in those times he fought incredibly dirty.

 _Like me_ , she thought.

********

It was time.

Her guns were ready, her Widow's Bite. She was excited as she had ever been, eager to confront Bechtold at last, glad that Clint would be beside her.

He had his bow slung across one shoulder, a handgun strapped to his thigh. His body was calm but she could see the energy in his eyes, could seem it thrumming below the surface of his face. She thought he might reach out to her, to touch her, but he did not. Just that tense excitement, a mirror of her own.

Getting into the building was easy; nothing for people with their skills. They made their way silently to the ballroom, and there they were. A group of women, huddled together, sleeping on the open floor. Men with guns in the room.

Clint caught her eye, nodded toward them. Unslung his bow. _I will do it,_ his eyes said, and she nodded. She followed him and they moved silently to an upper floor, to a sort of balcony where people had once looked down on the dancing below. He took an arrow from his quiver. Drew a deep breath, and moved.

It all seemed to happen in a moment--he jumped onto the balcony railing, landing neatly and steadily in one feline move, while also drawing the arrow back and sending it silently between a man's eyes. In a flash he nocked another arrow, sent death flying, strung another. He was all grace, all power, his face set, his eyes hard.

Natasha had never seen anything more beautiful.

********

One of the women cried out when the guard nearest to them dropped with a thud.

Then cried out again when another man jumped down in front of them, holding a bow. A red haired woman followed him, landing on her feet as silent as a cat. They were both terrifying.

The other women woke up, confused and crying. There was a little girl among them, maybe no more than ten. Natasha pointedly did not look at the child.

"Be calm," she told them in Russian. "We will get you out of this place. You will be safe. But first I must kill Anton Bechtold." Her eyes held the promise. A few of the women nodded.

Clint stepped forward. He had not spoken Russian in weeks, forbidden by Natasha and a little embarrassed about his poor accent and vocabulary, but he spoke it now, haltingly. "Who is brave?" he asked, eyes searching their faces. "Who are you who is brave?"

A dark haired woman stood up, her chin raised. There was a fire in her eyes that he recognized, and he smiled at her. He reached into his pocket and to Natasha's great surprise pulled out the alligator head Pez dispenser. He pulled it open, to where one would put in the candy, then kept pulling. With two fingers he plucked out a small device. It was plain, only a button on top. It was an emergency beacon, Natasha realized, and would call Shield to his position when activated. He had had it the whole time.

"When we go away," he said to the woman, his Russian slow and simple, but heavy with authority, "you do this." He mimed pressing the button. "Do this and good men will come. You will be safe. You will not be harmed." The woman nodded.

Clint stepped away from them, pulled the arrow from chest of the guard beside them. Quickly scratched "HAWKEYE 902339" into the wooden floor. Pointed to it, pointed to himself, pointed to the button. "You will not harmed," he said again.

He looked at the group of huddled, frightened women, eyes settling on the girl, the child. He held out the Pez dispenser to her, tipped the alligator head back and forth, as if it were laughing. The little girl reached up and took it. Clutched it to her chest, the first childish thing she had held in who knew how long. Clint smiled at her, his dazzling smile, and she gave a small one back. "You will be safe," he said to her.

As he and Natasha disappeared into the lower floors the woman gravely pushed the button.

And they waited.  
  
*******

Natasha dispatched the remaining guards easily. They were slow and poorly trained. They found the room Bechtold had to be in and Clint kicked the door open.

The man begged for his life, screamed when he recognized Natasha. She stood above his cowering form, knife in her hand. She paused, looking up at Clint.

He looked back at her. There was no judgement in his face. He reached back and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Held it out to her with a steady hand. She smiled radiantly at him and took it.

Her knife in one hand, his arrow in the other. It felt right.

With a primal scream she ended Anton Bechtold's wicked life.

Hawkeye and the Black Widow gazed at each other silently. There was blood splashed onto her face. She went over to him in three quick steps, pulled his face roughly to hers, kissed him hard.

A heartbeat later, his arms went around her, tightly. Kissing her back. Kissing passionately, hurting each other a little. When they broke apart she stayed in his arms, shaking with adrenaline.

It was done. They had done it together.

Clint looked up, hearing something. The whir of helicopter rotors maybe. The bark of voices. Ones he might have recognized as they grew closer. Clint put his fingers to Natasha's chin, tipped her face up to his, a warning in his eyes. She nodded.

They disappeared into the night as Shield swarmed the building.


	7. Chapter 7

They sat on a rooftop, watching the scene from a distance. There was no moon, and it felt safe. Clint was leaned back on his elbows. His face was a little wistful as he watched, but he smiled at her.

Natasha felt peaceful, free. It was over. She thought about Bechtold's blood. Thought about Clint's arrow, her knife, in her hands. Thought about the women huddled in the darkness, wondered what would happen to them now.

"You wrote your name in the floor, left your arrows. They will know you are here. That you are alive."

He shrugged. "That doesn't matter anymore."

She nodded, then laughed to herself. "Now I understand why you were so angry when I took it."

He knew immediately what she meant and laughed with her. Shook his head at the memory.

"You could have called them at any time. But you didn't."

"I wanted to stay with you."

"We stay together," she agreed, and he nodded in the dark. "Where do we go now? What do we do?" She had made no plans for "after".

Clint watched the lights in the distance. "We could...we could kill people for money. I know where we could find backers. We could kill people and we'd be rich--I'm good at it." He was.

"We could get jobs," she suggested, and he looked at her, startled. "I could teach ballet, you could teach English." He laughed at the idea and she grinned. "We could live in a town, in a house. Have more things than what would just fit in a backpack. We...we could get married." She paused. "I could be your wife."

He did not answer at first, but moved over and kissed her shoulder gently. Leaned against her a little. "That's the kind of thing I dream of," he said finally, quietly. "But that's not you."

She shook her head. "But I would do it, for you."

"And I could live with you and be content all the rest of my days."

Natasha pressed back against him. "Maybe we could combine our dreams. Then we could both be happy."

"We could be married killers that live in a house?" he teased.

She laughed. Said softly, "You don't want to marry me." It was true. "You want to marry Laura."

He was quiet. She could see the struggle in his face. "I can't have you both," he said sadly.

"Maybe you can." Natasha took a deep breath and risked it all. "Maybe I could feel safe. Maybe I could feel wanted."

Clint understood immediately. "You want to work for Shield?"

"Yes. Maybe they will not kill me."

"If you tell them enough, give them enough, I'm sure that they won't. They would love you. Fury would love to have an asset like you."

"I could be with you. On your team. You and me and Phil and the Silverfish."

His eyes were sad, like always, at the mention of their names, but there was something else, too--the faintest glimmer of hope. "They wouldn't have me back, Nat," he said, but for the first time he did not sound so sure.

"They will," she assured him. "I will make them love me so much that they will forgive you."

He chuckled. "Maybe." There was definitely hope in his eyes now. "The Black Widow in America, can you imagine it?" His smile was sunny in the darkness.

She could. "I will speak only perfect English," she said, "with no accent. I'll have my own bed and clothes, and food I won't have to fight for." She nudged him a little and he smiled at his words in her mouth. "And I'll wear my hair however I want, and I'll change it all the time. Grow it out, cut it short, make it curlier, straighter. Different every day. You will never know what it will look like."

Clint laughed again, his smile at her full of fondness. "I can't wait to see that."

They were quiet for awhile, dreaming. Clint's face was animated, hopeful, and she could see in it the little boy he had once been, before a lifetime of disappointments. Could see the young man who had been won over so easily by Shield at the mere prospect of having friends. The man who had his heart broken again by the weight of his actions. Who missed the people had had left behind so desperately.

"When do we do this?" he asked. "When do we throw ourselves at the feet of Shield?"

"Today," she answered. " _Now_. Right now." She gestured to the lights in the distance.

"Okay. And if they try to kill us both, we have our backup plan. Get jobs and get married."

Natasha laughed, feeling lighter than she had ever been. Moved in front of him, so she could look him in the eyes, as much as she could in the darkness. "That will not happen. They will take us both and we will be a team. You will marry Laura, be a father to her little boy. And I'll take care of you, and you'll take care of me, and neither of us will ever have to be alone. I will not need to be so angry, and you will not need to be so sad." She rested her hand along the side of his face.

His face was so hopeful, so happy--the look of a man who had lost everything only to be offered it all back. That, and more. He pulled her close to him, hugging her hard, but there was nothing more than that, no kiss, and that was alright.

*********

They left their weapons stashed outside. She felt vulnerable, naked, without her guns, but he told her it was the right thing and she believed him.

They walked up to the building for the second time that night, entering the small courtyard to the side. Clint raised his empty palms into the air, hands at shoulder height, and she did the same.

Voices shouted at them, American voices speaking in Russian, telling them to get down, get back. Guns pointed at them. And then, a voice exclaimed in surprise, "Holy shit, it's Barton!"

The guns did not lower, but she heard them calling back to one another "Barton! It's Barton!"

Clint held his chin up, his expression unreadable.

Doors flung open and a man in a suit and tie came charging toward them in quick strides. Natasha knew it was Phil, knew it without being told. She could see it in the hitch of Clint's breath, the longing suddenly in his eyes. Still, as Phil came toward them Clint moved in front of her, as if to block her from the approaching agent.

Natasha rolled her eyes. As if she would ever need protecting. She stepped up beside him, her head held high, her eyes fierce. She was not afraid.

Clint smiled at her, then turned back and looked at Phil, who stopped in front of them.

She held her breath.

And Phil reached out and crushed Clint into a hug, gripping him tightly and whispering "Oh my God. Oh my God."

The guns around them lowered. It was going to be alright.

Natasha let her breath out silently.

After a few moments Clint pulled away, reached his hand out for hers. Phil's sharp eyes looked at her for the first time. Recognized her. Waited.

"This is Natasha Romanov."

Phil Coulson shook her hand.


End file.
